


Of Havens and Heavenly Hosts

by elizabethelizabeth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Crowley's Orange Jacket (Good Omens), Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth
Summary: "My dear, whathappenedto you?"Crowley raised a rueful, if pitiful, eyebrow. He was absolutely drenched, and more than surface-level. It was not unusual for England's rains to reach inside a person and seem to dampen the soul and well as the physical form, but the extent to which Crowley has clearly been collecting rainwater is a little depressing. "S'not obvious?"
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 51





	Of Havens and Heavenly Hosts

**Author's Note:**

> The exclusivity period for the Unleash the Chaos zine (aka the Fuck Shit Up jacket (aka Crowley's orange hi vis jacket) zine) is up!!! This was my first zine I was a writer on and it was so much fun!!!

There was a knock on Aziraphale’s door; both odd and frustrating in succession. Odd because even the rudest of customers wouldn’t normally knock before entering--they would usually rattle the doorknob in fruitless persistence before knocking angrily. It was also frustrating because the person he’d been expecting didn’t normally knock, so it must have been a new customer who didn’t understand the precedent of disgust feigned as indifference. 

Aziraphale almost didn’t answer the door--might as well leave the prospective not-customer to the weather (which was abysmally gloomy), but he suddenly heard a familiar voice on the other side of the wood and glass. "Angel?"

Oh. It turned out to be  _ exactly _ who Aziraphale was expecting.

What Aziraphale wasn’t expecting was the absolute pitiful sight that greeted him as he opened the door. Although it does answer the question of why the demon knocked in the first place. "My dear, what  _ happened _ to you?"

Crowley raised a rueful, if pitiful, eyebrow. He was absolutely drenched, and more than surface-level. It was not unusual for England's rains to reach inside a person and seem to dampen the soul and well as the physical form, but the extent to which Crowley has clearly been collecting rainwater is a little depressing. "S'not obvious?"

"Won't you come in?"

"Don't want to get water all over..." Crowley trailed off, looking very much like he wanted to self-consciously wrap his arms around his body, were it not for the threat of a monsoon upon Aziraphale's stoop.

"Don't be ridiculous, Crowley. You'll catch your death of--well, no, you won't, but--oh, come in."

Aziraphale closed the door and took in the disaster of a demon in front of him. By the firelight, he saw the further extent of the water damage. Crowley's beloved jacket (as much as an article of clothing  _ can _ be beloved by a creature that changes as often as the seasons) had bought the brunt of the weather: the material, despite its resistance (or so Aziraphale supposes) was dripping water at an unprecedented rate. The orange high visibility markers on the shoulders seemed to glow the slightest bit sadder, upset at not performing their due diligence and keeping their owner dry. Crowley's arms hung at his sides and dripped twin puddles onto the wood. The jacket had gotten the worst of the rain, but the rest of Crowley fared no better: sodden shoes, trousers mud-stained, hair hanging limp and worse for wear.

Aziraphale wondered how uncouth it would be to say he'd looked better during the flood.

"Come, darling." Aziraphale began to unbutton the coat, a methodical and careful rhythm. "Tell me what happened?"

Crowley groaned. "Bloody internet.”

“Ahh,” Aziraphale said knowingly, easing the jacket from Crowley’s shoulders. “Is this like the time with the telephone lines?” The evidence of the jacket’s wretched failure became all the more clearer with the revelation of Crowley’s torso, the black cotton henley distressingly drenched. This would not do at all.

“No. Well, yes, but no. Wasn’t meant to—” Crowley interrupted himself with a sigh that hinted at overcompensation. “Took a bus to Wembley, messed about with their wifi cables. They’re buried underground, you know.” Aziraphale didn’t, but the comment did explain the mud. “Wanted some posh prats to get irritated, no delivery or bad Tinder dates for the restless masses. Thousands of frustrated souls.” Crowley sighed blissfully with the memory. “Meant to get an Uber back into town, but—”

“You couldn’t because you’d mucked up the wifi.” The jacket was off by that point, still precipitating of its own accord, and Aziraphale had a guess for the rest of Crowley’s condition. "Go on, upstairs with you. You know where my clothes are. Get the comfiest jumper on and we'll have you dry in no time."

As Crowley disappeared to the flat upstairs and to Aziraphale's wardrobe, the angel got to work. The fire roared miraculously hotter and a kettle screeched its temperature in record time. A drying rack appeared near the grate and it hosted Crowley's jacket perfectly. 

Aziraphale had just set down the tea service when Crowley reappeared, clad in a grey jumper meticulously knitted and cabled. It hung well past his hips, but Aziraphale could see the peek of tartan pants all the same. "Better?"

Crowley scowled. "Drier, anyway."

"Sit. Tea. You'll feel better."

Crowley continued scowling up until Aziraphale handed him a chocolate biscuit, by which point his face settled to melancholy instead. 

Crowley chewed loudly and Aziraphale prepared him a cup (milky and sweet and not at all how Crowley would have made it himself, but how the demon preferred it). “So you got caught in the rain without an umbrella.”

“I don’t use umbrellas. Umbrellas are for those with weak constitutions.” Crowley talks with his mouth full; it does not add any weight to his argument.

Aziraphale took his own sugarless cup of tea in hand. “How did you get back?”

Crowley flushed, possibly due to the heat of the fireplace, who is to really say? “Walked.”

“From Wembley?” Aziraphale asked, horrified.

“Not the whole way!” Crowley took another furious bite of his biscuit. “Forgot about the bus.”

“The bus you rode in on,” Aziraphale deadpanned.

“Oi, I’m cold and pitiable, you’re not allowed to be mean to me.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale didn’t smile. He did smirk, but he kept it mild. “Apologies, my love. For what it’s worth, I am glad you made it safely back.”

Another biscuit was irritably eaten and the last of his tea downed before Crowley curling in on himself on the ancient and well-worn sofa. That just wouldn’t do. With an inviting sigh (and they do exist; they're a sign of comfort and welcome) Aziraphale sat his own cup down, leaned back, and opened his arms wide enough for a demon to cuddle into. The demon did just that, not even pretending to be bothered at the show of affection. Aziraphale noted, horrified, that Crowley was still cold and shivering. He pulled a plush blanket from the ether, draping it over them both.

"Thanks," Crowley murmured, letting the sibilants betray a small sense of his sluggish somnolence.

"My pleasure, darling. Now rest.”

While Crowley drifted into an exhausted slumber, Aziraphale smiled to himself and towards the jacket drying by the fire. It caught the glow and illuminated the flames all the more orange; like a beacon, a lighthouse, a veritable port in the storm. For all that demons have worked in darkness and dimly lit derelict domiciles, Crowley has always sought attention for his work. The flash and the frenzy of his mischief has always held a fascination for Aziraphale, and he revels in his ability to have and take and feel the same enjoyment, the joy that Crowley receives from mindless trouble. Even if that trouble turns out perhaps more of a struggle than it’s worth sometimes.

The jacket will dry, Crowley will go out once again, and Aziraphale will wait for him.


End file.
